mood to visit Frank) falls into the maple syrup pooled on her plate.
The dad wipes Lumphy off with a dishrag and takes him downstairs. Says hello to the workman in the basement and opens Frank’s lid.
Wait!
Lumphy wants to yell. Why is there a workman down here?
The Dryer is pulled out from the wall. Tubes and wires are coming from her back. The workman is doing something to her, but before Lumphy can see more, the dad pops him into Frank’s tub and adds soap. Then he shuts the lid and starts the wash cycle.
Warm water gushes in.
“Frank!” whispers Lumphy.
There is no answer.
“Frank, can you hear me?”
Frank gives a grunt that is almost indistinguishable from a regular washing machine noise. He doesn’t want the workman to hear him talk.
“What’s wrong with the Dryer?” whispers Lumphy, his own voice masked by the sound of the water.
Frank doesn’t answer.
“Is she going to be okay?” Lumphy is being swished back and forth in Frank’s washtub, but instead of feeling dance-y he is sick to his stomach. How could he have thought mean things about the Dryer? How could he have wished she weren’t around, when now she has wires coming out of her?
Again, Frank doesn’t answer. He can’t, because the workman will hear him.
. . . . .
When the wash cycle is finished and Frank’s buzzer goes off, nobody comes to get Lumphy. He sits in Frank’s tub, listening to the clank of tools and the music from the radio.
Finally, the man calls up the stairs and Honey’s dad comes down. “I don’t know if I can fix it,” the workman tells him. “You got an old machine. I’m gonna send away for a part, should come in by Wednesday, and I’m hoping that’ll give you another couple years with this one. But I’m not gonna promise.”
“All right,” says the dad.
“If this one’s finished, and you buy your new machine from us, the installation’s free.”
“That would be great.”
The two men leave without taking Lumphy out of the washer.
When they are gone, the buffalo pokes his head out from under Frank’s lid and looks at the big brown wreck of a dryer. She sits at a sad and awkward angle, pulled out from the wall.
“What’s wrong with her?” he asks again.
“She started squeaking,” explains Frank, in a voice that has none of its usual energy. “Then her tumble didn’t sound right, and yesterday she couldn’t dry a load of dad-clothes. Just couldn’t get them dry at all. They were damp, I tell you,” he sobs. “She had damp dad-clothes in her!”
“I am so sorry,” Lumphy tells him.
“Well, yeah,” says Frank. “I know.”
“I hope you feel better,” Lumphy calls to the Dryer.
“She can’t answer you,” says Frank. “She hasn’t even grunted since two days ago.”
“Oh.”
Lumphy doesn’t know what to say. He wishes he could do something to help, but there isn’t anything to do.
“Did you hear what they said?” worries Frank. “If they can’t fix her, they’ll replace her. Like she was nobody. Like she was a used-up piece of trash.”
Lumphy nods. He heard, but it is too horrible to think about.
“They’ll bring some stranger here to live with me and dry the clothes, expecting me to like it,” says Frank. “Don’t they see we have feelings?”
“I don’t think they do,” says Lumphy. “They’re nice people, but they really only care about other people, you know?”
“I know,” says Frank. “That’s how this life is.”
. . . . .
Lumphy hangs on a clothesline in the bright spring air of the backyard, where he watches Honey and her mother plant petunias. When he is dry, Honey takes him down and brings him indoors. “We’re going on a sleepover,” she tells him.
She shoves Lumphy in her backpack along with Plastic, StingRay, a box of glitter makeup, clean clothes, a toothbrush, and a pair of pajamas. Quite a tight fit indeed. Lumphy’s hind end is squashed to one side and the toothbrush is poking him in the stomach, while
The dad wipes Lumphy off with a dishrag and takes him downstairs. Says hello to the workman in the basement and opens Frank’s lid.
Wait!
Lumphy wants to yell. Why is there a workman down here?
The Dryer is pulled out from the wall. Tubes and wires are coming from her back. The workman is doing something to her, but before Lumphy can see more, the dad pops him into Frank’s tub and adds soap. Then he shuts the lid and starts the wash cycle.
Warm water gushes in.
“Frank!” whispers Lumphy.
There is no answer.
“Frank, can you hear me?”
Frank gives a grunt that is almost indistinguishable from a regular washing machine noise. He doesn’t want the workman to hear him talk.
“What’s wrong with the Dryer?” whispers Lumphy, his own voice masked by the sound of the water.
Frank doesn’t answer.
“Is she going to be okay?” Lumphy is being swished back and forth in Frank’s washtub, but instead of feeling dance-y he is sick to his stomach. How could he have thought mean things about the Dryer? How could he have wished she weren’t around, when now she has wires coming out of her?
Again, Frank doesn’t answer. He can’t, because the workman will hear him.
. . . . .
When the wash cycle is finished and Frank’s buzzer goes off, nobody comes to get Lumphy. He sits in Frank’s tub, listening to the clank of tools and the music from the radio.
Finally, the man calls up the stairs and Honey’s dad comes down. “I don’t know if I can fix it,” the workman tells him. “You got an old machine. I’m gonna send away for a part, should come in by Wednesday, and I’m hoping that’ll give you another couple years with this one. But I’m not gonna promise.”
“All right,” says the dad.
“If this one’s finished, and you buy your new machine from us, the installation’s free.”
“That would be great.”
The two men leave without taking Lumphy out of the washer.
When they are gone, the buffalo pokes his head out from under Frank’s lid and looks at the big brown wreck of a dryer. She sits at a sad and awkward angle, pulled out from the wall.
“What’s wrong with her?” he asks again.
“She started squeaking,” explains Frank, in a voice that has none of its usual energy. “Then her tumble didn’t sound right, and yesterday she couldn’t dry a load of dad-clothes. Just couldn’t get them dry at all. They were damp, I tell you,” he sobs. “She had damp dad-clothes in her!”
“I am so sorry,” Lumphy tells him.
“Well, yeah,” says Frank. “I know.”
“I hope you feel better,” Lumphy calls to the Dryer.
“She can’t answer you,” says Frank. “She hasn’t even grunted since two days ago.”
“Oh.”
Lumphy doesn’t know what to say. He wishes he could do something to help, but there isn’t anything to do.
“Did you hear what they said?” worries Frank. “If they can’t fix her, they’ll replace her. Like she was nobody. Like she was a used-up piece of trash.”
Lumphy nods. He heard, but it is too horrible to think about.
“They’ll bring some stranger here to live with me and dry the clothes, expecting me to like it,” says Frank. “Don’t they see we have feelings?”
“I don’t think they do,” says Lumphy. “They’re nice people, but they really only care about other people, you know?”
“I know,” says Frank. “That’s how this life is.”
. . . . .
Lumphy hangs on a clothesline in the bright spring air of the backyard, where he watches Honey and her mother plant petunias. When he is dry, Honey takes him down and brings him indoors. “We’re going on a sleepover,” she tells him.
She shoves Lumphy in her backpack along with Plastic, StingRay, a box of glitter makeup, clean clothes, a toothbrush, and a pair of pajamas. Quite a tight fit indeed. Lumphy’s hind end is squashed to one side and the toothbrush is poking him in the stomach, while
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